


Bel Tine, Fourth Age Year 1

by mizzymouse



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Family, Fourth Age, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizzymouse/pseuds/mizzymouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tam al'Thor returns home after making his yearly Bel Tine delivery to the Winespring Inn, during the first spring of the Fourth Age. But something is not right at the farm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bel Tine, Fourth Age Year 1

Tam al’Thor walked out of the barn, cart secured and horse stabled, and headed towards the back door of his farmhouse. A lantern he had lit earlier that day still shone in the window, illuminating the dirt path despite the growing darkness. Bel Tine was quickly approaching, and he had spent the day delivering his barrels of brandy and cider, more this year than in the past, to Bran al’Vere at the Winespring Inn. Though the Last Battle was less than a year past, fall crops had been plentiful, and people all across the Two Rivers were rebuilding, expanding, and preparing for this spring’s festivities. Tam chuckled quietly to himself, remembering the Bel Tines of his childhood and Rand’s. It was 3 years ago almost exactly Moiraine Sedai had shown up Emond’s Field that fateful day and spun his son into the pattern of the end of an Age. He thought of Rand as his son, even now.

It was then that Tam heard a familiar noise, the soft scrape of a knife on a whetstone. Immediately on alert, he glanced around for the source of the noise, pulling his own belt knife free of its sheath as silently as possible. From the length of each stroke of the stone on the steel Tam could tell is was a small knife, unlikely to be anything larger than a short sword. Shadows hid the side of the house, near the back door, which was the location of the knife-wielding individual.

The soft scrape stopped, but was quickly replaced by a less threatening noise. A soft grunt of effort from the intruder was followed by the rip of skin from a small animal. A rabbit, perhaps. Who would be skinning a rabbit on Tam’s back porch at this hour? Another ripping noise followed the first. Two rabbits.

With the skill of a lifetime woodsman, Tam crept silently around the corner of the house, using the shadows to obscure his movements. As long as the intruder didn’t have Perrin’s eyes, there were few men in the world that could have spotted him. He flipped his belt knife around to conceal it, and readied himself for a fight, if this would come to that, unlikely as it seemed. Perhaps this was an elaborate joke by Abell Cauthon, who shared his son’s jokester quality, or Gaul, that Aiel friend of Perrin’s with a strange sense of humor.

The stranger was neither of those people. He was tall, even seated as he was, and dark of hair. Loose waves of it brushed his almost-too-strong jaw. He was clean-shaven and dressed in the plain but durable garb of a traveler. His brow was furrowed above tired blue eyes, and he stuck his tongue out just a little, like a man concentrating very hard on his task. Next to him sat two skinned rabbits and a pile of potatoes, some peeled and some not. He was peeling another large potato with a short belt knife, and it was clear the task was made increasingly difficult by the way his shadow was concealing his work. An unstrung Two Rivers bow leaned against the house next to him, and a well-worn cloth pack.

Something about him pulled at Tam’s memory. There was something strangely familiar about that man’s expression, something youthful despite something in the width of his shoulders that said he was a man grown. Tam straightened slowly, confusion and curiosity carrying him forward, and sheathed his knife. There was something so familiar about the man. Was he someone from Deven Ride or Tarren Ferry? No, even in the lamplight it was clear his features matched none native to the Two Rivers, and his complexion was too fair. One of the refugees from the Last Battle, maybe? He was far too tall to be Cairhienin, and most of the Andorans that had made their way to the Two Rivers had made their way back out come peacetime, back to rebuild their homes and communities. More importantly, why was he sitting on Tam’s back porch, less than a week before Bel Tine, skinning rabbits and peeling potatoes?

Tam got within a few feet of the man before he looked up from his task, placing the now peeled potato with the rest and sheathing his knife. Their gazes met, and Tam noticed a strange black mark in one of the man’s eyes. The color was wrong, too blue, but the look was the same. Such a familiar look. What, under the Light, were the chances?

“Rand?”

“Hello, father.”

The man—no, Rand, it had to be him, somehow—rose, and embraced Tam. His height was right, but his shoulders were too wide. Still, it was similar, the same, to how things had once been. But that part of the weave had finished, the Creator had moved on, the Wheel turned. Rand had died—or had he?—in the Last Battle. That was it, then, why the man was so familiar in so many conflicting ways. This man, the one embracing Tam, claiming to be his son, was the one Rand had fought at Shayol Ghul, at the prison of the Dark One himself. After Rand’s funeral, Tam had lost track of the man, though he recognized him from the tent where Rand had lain and died. Or lived.

“How?” Tam breathed, stepping back. It was him, the one the Nynaeve and Moiraine had called Moridin, but the look in his eyes was Rand’s. There was an age to that look, but it was Rand’s none the less.

“I’ve been pondering that for the greater part of a year, and I’ve yet to find an answer. The man you buried, whose pyre you burned, had my face but not my memories. We switched, somehow.” He reached down for his bundles and opened the back door to the house, waving Tam inside. “Come, I’ll explain what I can over supper. The rabbits have grown plump this spring.”

While Tam slumped at the table, cup of brandy in hand, Rand—he was definitely Rand—moved through the kitchen with surprising ease, setting the potatoes to boil over the fire and the rabbits to roast. His ease shouldn’t have been as surprising. This was Rand’s childhood home, and Tam was a creature of habit. Everything remained in essentially the same place as it had sat three years ago. Rand poured himself a cup of brandy and topped off Tam’s, settling in at his usual place at the table. His usual place, ha! Rand hadn’t been inside this house in three years, and when he left, he hadn’t been drinking brandy. Everything had changed, but in many ways it remained the same. By the light of the lanterns and the crackling fire, Rand began to tell his tale. His voice was wrong, but the tone was all Rand, as were the words. This man may have looked so different from his son, but Tam knew he indeed was who he claimed, as impossible at that seemed.

Rand had snuck out during the funeral, and had wandered for a time. Being by himself—relying on himself—had taught him how to be a whole person again. He had avoided all but the smallest town, listening to gossip in taverns and inns, posing as yet another soldier-turned-refugee traveling across the land, hoping to establish a new homestead. Elayne, Min, and Aviendha knew he was alive, and he supposed Nynaeve knew as well, but they had all respected his need for privacy. He knew Elayne’s children had been born, a few months after the Last Battle, but he hadn’t been to see them yet. Tam was the first from his old life Rand had come to.

Just as the tale was finished, the food was done, and the two men ate in silence for a time. It was comfortable, just the way Tam remembered. Had he ever grieved after Rand’s death? Or had he known all along that something like this would happen? Rand had prevailed over the Dark One, sealing his prison for good, and everything had returned to how it had been. Including Rand, coming home like he had.

Tam wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and drank the last of his brandy. “Will you be staying for Bel Tine? It will be large this year, with all the refugees that chose to stay, and with Perrin and Faile pulling the festivities together.”

“I don’t think I can, not yet at least. I should probably head back towards Caemlyn and see Elayne and the babies.”

Tam nodded. He understood. The two traded gossip and rumor. Faile was apparently with child, and Perrin was a little anxious about it. Mat was back in Ebou Dar with the Seanchan, causing his usual havoc. Min was with him. Cadsuane, the new Amyrlin, was holding firm on Egwene’s early agreement with the Empress regarding channelers. Aviendha was widely respected by the Wise Ones, and had spearheaded the Aiel actions involved in the Dragon’s Peace. Lan and Nynaeve were still in the early stages of rebuilding Malkier, but everyone who had been to see them had only good things to say.

It was past midnight, the fire burned low, by the time they finished. Rand started towards his old room before looking back at Tam, a question in his too-blue eyes.

“Of course you can stay, as long as you wish. Although I’m expecting you to help with the sheep, if you’re going to stay for more than a night. The ewes have already begun to lamb, and I find a new baby every few days.”

Rand chuckled, making a face. The lambs were never his favorite. Animal care had always been more Perrin’s domain. “Goodnight, father.”

Tam watched as Rand walked off. His gait was right, but the proportions were off. Still, his son had come home. Had he ever thought otherwise?  
“Goodnight, son,” he whispered, turning towards his own room. The Wheel weaves, and that which had happened would come again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in a number of years, so I hope everyone likes it. I have more stuff planned for other (probably also short) Wheel of Time fics, so look out for those if you like this. Thanks for reading!


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